Then he picked up the pace again, pulling, darting, zigzagging, and generally trying to trip me. A completely normal cat-on-a-leash jaunt, as if he hadn’t just shared an excruciatingly intimate detail.
Trying to fill the silence, I mentioned Hector.
Clarence paused. “He’s been here a few years; that’s why he didn’t make the list. You think we should bump him up?”
“No, but I do think we should swing by and introduce ourselves the first chance we get. I don’t think she mentioned him casually.”
As we passed Sylvie’s house, a curtain twitched, and not five seconds later she emerged waving. “Mr. Todd—Geoff!”
Clarence and I crossed the street again to join her. I hoped she was distracted enough by recent events that she missed his left-right-left check for oncoming traffic.
She frowned, giving Clarence a curious look. “Did your cat . . . No, never mind. How are you?”
Since I hadn’t recently lost my shed to an explosion . . . “I’m fine, but more importantly, how are you doing?”
She didn’t look like she’d recently suffered a traumatic event. She was wearing a pretty dark blue dress with white embroidery, the thin straps showing off her tanned shoulders. She had beautiful shoulders. I lifted my gaze several inches.
“About that . . .” She clasped her hands in front of her, twisting them this way and that—but no explanation followed.
Clarence butted me with his head.
Nudging him away with my toe, I made a note to thank him later. “Ah, thank you for having me over last night. After you, ah—”
“Passed out?” The twisting stopped, and she touched her fingers to her forehead, effectively covering her face.
“No, not at all. After you retired for the evening, I had a short chat with Bobby.” I must have been moving in the right direction, because her hand lowered and she peeked at me. Encouraged, I continued, “He didn’t have much of value to add. But I had to check him off the witness list.”
Her hand fell back to her side as I spoke, and I swallowed a sigh of relief.
“Does that mean you have other potential witnesses?”
Ghosts were one thing, but witches another. And outing Tamara was simply not an option.
“We have a few leads, and we’re working on a list.” All true.
She cocked her head and smiled curiously. “We?”
Clarence smacked me with a paw—claws extended.
I nudged (kicked) him away. “Me, sorry. Just a turn of phrase.”
“Like the royal ‘we’?” She grinned, flashing her dimple again.
“I guess. So, I was thinking, when you have a moment, maybe we could sit down again and you could tell me about your husband’s work history?” No need to mention I, via my talking and typing cat, had pulled Bobby’s work history already. She might be able to fill the gaps, primarily how his completely above-board-appearing employment was in any way shady.
“Sure, I’d love that.” With a wry smile, she added, “And maybe no wine this time. I’m a bit of a lightweight.”
“I’d probably drink more than a few glasses of wine if someone had done that kind of damage to my home.” I couldn’t quite manage to say “explosion” or “bomb.” The words were too close to the reality, and it seemed wrong to say them in her presence.
“At least you didn’t catch me drinking tequila or whiskey. That’s a sight. Trust me.” She shook her head, but now I was curious to know what exactly tequila or whiskey did to her that constituted “a sight.” She licked her lips. “I’m off to work now for a few hours, but if you’d like to get together this evening . . . ?”
“You’re working already?” Modern women, independence, and some other related, liberated-type thoughts flashed through my head, and I realized perhaps I’d misspoken. “Sorry, yes, this evening would be lovely. What time?”
She bit her lip, but her eyes crinkled. “Eight. Your place?”
“Absolutely, I’ll see you then.”
“And Geoff, thank you—for last night.”
“It was entirely my pleasure.”
She smiled and her dimple made yet another appearance. I was developing a strong affection for that dimple. “You are an odd combination of the traditional and modern man, Mr. Todd.”
“I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Maybe give me a hint?”
She laughed—but didn’t answer.
As I watched her walk back to her house, Clarence said, “It’s good, Geoff. Trust me on this one.”
I wasn’t taking romantic advice from a talking (and frequently lecherous) cat, even one who’d just revealed the presence of a heretofore hypothetical heart.
15
Tuesday evening
A message from Lilac was waiting for me on my answering machine.
“This is Lilac. Is this an answering machine? Geoff, you really need to get a cell phone. Anyway, I’ve given it some thought, and . . . Well, just come by today if you can. I canceled my appointments, so I’m free. I’ll be here until about seven. And, you know, bring the cat.”
Encouraging? Maybe not. But there was at least a possibility of acceptance stashed in that message. Canceling appointments might be an indication of a personal, professional, or existential crisis. But it might also just be her working through some complex variables, or even making time for an important client.
That last one wasn’t very likely, but I could hope.
“She’s fine.”
“What?”
Clarence heaved a huge sigh. “You had that look, like someone had drowned your favorite kitten. Lilac sounded fine on the message.”
“Please stop with the drowned kittens. And by the way, drowning any kitten would be bad. The favorite part is overkill.”
“Got it, boss. So call Lilac already.”
Right. I picked up the phone and dialed the number from memory.
She picked up after one ring. In a breathless voice, she said, “Geoff, thank . . .” But her voice trailed away as if the connection was poor or the phone far away. But then, much more clearly, she said, “You’re coming?”
Caller ID. It was baffling on so many levels how such a simple device could alter phone etiquette so
